


Wash Away

by Neelh



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Poltergeists, ghost!stan au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anxiety is ingrained in his flesh. It has been ever since.</p>
<p>Ever since.</p>
<p>(the one where ford is literally haunted by the demons of his past, only they're not demons, and not entirely from the past.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. afraid to close my eyes

The wind whistles through the Shack’s walls, making Ford shiver. He should really try and fix it, but the way his brother’s old handyman looks at him makes his stomach writhe in discomfort and he doesn’t have the energy to do it himself. So he sits under a pile of blankets in the same stained sweater he has been wearing for the past two weeks. The wool of the neck and sleeves are misshapen from being chewed on and pulled through Ford’s nervous habits.

Anxiety is ingrained in his flesh. It has been ever since.

Ever since.

Bill wrecked his mind and then the portal, scarred his body and soul, but this is the worst of all of the difficulties he’s faced. The creature hunting him, taunting him, killing him, is not an alien or demon, but his own brother.

A loud clatter makes Ford jolt. It’s something metal – he can tell by the echo – and it was probably a medium weight. Something he would have no trouble lifting, but Mabel or Dipper would struggle with holding up for a while. Judging by that, he should probably start shopping for a new kettle or microwave soon.

He retreats back to his basic state of constant paranoia and a feeling of exhaustion so heavy that he can’t even tell when he has fallen asleep. There isn’t much difference between his nightmares and reality anymore, so he sees no problem with it.

There is another sudden loud noise, this one further away. Ford estimates that it must be near the stairs, and the thudding sound it made sounded like the coat stand. The last he had known, it had been knocked over. Had S… Had the Ghost really placed it back where it belonged to knock it over again?

Another sound; just down the hall. The shattering noise proves it to be a mirror and Ford would hate having seven years of bad luck if his life wasn’t already a living hell.

The door opens. Funny. The Ghost can usually phase through walls and, either way, tends to just break things that are in the way. The creak of the hinges is like a banshee’s screech in the night. Is it night? The curtains and blinds have been closed for a couple of months.

“M͠is̶s̶e͝d ͢me͟,̨ ̧Stanfo̡r̕d̴?́” he hears, and the voice is familiar but wrong, so so so _wrong_ , because it used to be cranky and warm and loving when directed at any family member who wasn’t Ford, and even then, there was always a hint of affection underneath.

But now there is nothing but grating words, like someone mixed together crushed bones and gravel and gave the resulting concoction a voice. The Ghost has a smile, always, and blue-grey smoke rising from his back. That’s all that Ford can see, usually, before he has to tear his eyes away because everything is so wrong. It’s not his brother.

“Do͜n’͠t i͞gnor̕e͠ ̡m̛é, ̢S̵t̴anfo̵r͢d̀,” the Ghost says. “Don’͢t͜ ͞y̴o͜u͞ ͜lo͢ve҉ ̴ýo͡ưr͢ ̕br͢ot̸h͢e̸r?”

Ford’s hands shake and he starts to pull on his sweater sleeve. “Please, just… Please don’t do… I…”

“Aw,҉ ̨St̢anfo͠r͠d҉,” says the Ghost with mocking pity and affection. “Can̛’t́ y̕o̢u҉ s͜ay̛ ́a teeny ̸l҉it̛t͝l̵e̡ se͏n̸tenc̵ę?̸ A̡r̸e͡ ̴yo͝ú to̴o ̴s̀͞t̵̵̛u̧̧͜͝͞p̀̀͘͜i͢͡͞d̷̶̸ fo̶r̸ th̴at́?̸”

“I… I, I… I…”

A snort. “W̧e͠l̨l͞, of ͜co̡urśe. T͜hís i̸̢͜s ͘th̵e ͏ḿan w͠h́o͏ t͏h̨o̸u͢gh͏t ̛th̢a̛t a tr̕ia̶ngula̧r͟ d̛emo҉n ̵w̢a͜s̵ a ͝mus̕e tha͢t ҉c͜h͝ose͝ ̴hi͘m.̧ S̸o ̛c͢on͟ceit̡eḑ.̛ B̨u̴t͡ I ́sti̸ll̛ ĺove̡d y̛o̸u,͏ d̵id͡n’t I͘?” And the Ghost flares up and Ford can feel the ice cold flames licking his skin; he can see the blue fire engulfing the room. “D̀́ͅḭ̶͇͖̣ͅd͈̥̖̦ǹ̡͎̠͔̖̭̥̙͇̕’̞̗t̶͙̲̻͈͎̰̝͇̕ ̵͔͔͕͍͟͞Í̖̻͕?̧̱̻̣͙̣͕̣̭ͅ”

“Y-y-y-yes,” Ford whispers, stumbling over the word and shaking with cold. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Ṣ͇̺̳̜̼͈̈͊͛̽̿ͯ͗̕o̼͔͖͚̱r̠̬͉͈̘͙͎̓ͥṛ̵̱̪y͗̐̍ ̛͖̝̺̊̊̋i̼͚̼̫͒s̱̦͓̫͋̋͒ͤ̅̀n͉’̡̙̻̱̝͙̩͎t̟̺̿͆̈ͫ͌̏̂͠ ͍̜̟̠͖ͣͧ͡g̷̖ͯ̿͌o̓ͭͪ͋o̫̓̀ͭ͑ͣ͊͑d̺̝͔͆ͩ ̑͋̂̀ȅ̺̭̗̰̲͈n̷̖̣̪̼̰͌ͥou̺̳̫̖ͨͯͭͬ̚g͇̪͝ͅh̼̮̑̇͂̚͘!͉̖͙̜͔̜̝̏̅̎̃ the Ghost roars. “Y̘͔͍͍͎̅̐ͥ̌o̦ͭ͛̅̀ͧů̧͙̐̉̐ ̻̩̈͗̌̄̾̓d̡͖̻͙̒̌ͯi̱̱ͩd̺̲̲̜͖̘̍̌ͤͪ̂͆ͩṇ̸͕̦̍ͬͩ͒̔ͮ͌’͓̅̆̍̈̎̚͜t̝͖̩̦͙͈̾ͣ̊̆̐̔ͅ ̝͚̟̻̝̝̿ͣ̌̊̀́s̞̖̹a̮̠̣̞̯̘̠ͬ̈v̩̙͂́e̱̤̖͎̳̞̟ͬ͟ ͙͙͖̹̙ͤͮ̈ͣͣͦ́ͅͅm̶̱̰̟ͧ͐eͬ҉͔͍̜̤!͔̮̮͈̖̰͆ͮ́ ͎̼̤̗̠̟ͩ̿͗́ͪͫ͘Y̤̽ͅo̜͎̟̞͌̅̄͊̃̇ͪṳ ͨ̓̍ͤ̊̾҉̜̙͖̩ͅd̶̝̖̝͋ͩͨ̇̂o̪͕̠͚̠̪̪̐ͩ̆̾ͣ͞n̩͛ͬ̐̈́͑́’̴̖̺̹̗ͩ̊̈́t̪̘̖̼̣̊̉̂ ̜͈̿͡ç̺̺̮̮̄ͨ̊ͪͦ̓̎a̯͎̲͂̒r̩̫̜e̺͔̯̬̩͢ ̷̱̦̺͇̅̀ͬͦ͐ͫå̌̉̈́̿b̬̺̬̼͍̯̞͗̿̏ͣ̎̎̈ǒ̰́ͅṳ̙̩̭̖͎̫̔ͤ̐̆̐t͚̩̜̘͕̥̔̈ͤͧ̑̿̚ ̗̱̱ͥ̈ͨ̚á̢̜͙͈̰̜̤̽̍͗̄̚ṋ͔̹̼̤͐̄͌̇ͅy̟̝ͧ͋̋̊͐̆ͅͅo̤͚̙̲̽̍ͬͫ̏n͙̤̲̣̣̭̾ͩ̃́ͣ̚e̫̥̹͈͈͙ͭ͂̋ͭ̊̉ ̻͈̜̙̝̪̟͒̀̊͗ͮ̈́̈b̈͒͆͏͚̯̭̣̠̗̪u̫̘̦͇̫̤̰͟t̷͙̝̐̓ͪ̇̽͑ͩ ͉̞͘y̙̦̳̅̀̈́o͂̃u̡̦̘͒̒̄̈͋̆r͔̘s̴̥̅ẹ͒̌̆ͣĺ̤̫̜̫̻͆̍̏͊̂͠f̶͉̬̬̟͇͈ͫ͆!̝̦̝̣̲͇͎ͨ͂ͭ̉”

Ford continues shaking and rocking backwards and forwards and pulling at his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

The slight growth in warmth slows Ford’s movements and words. He is alone.

 

-

 

Ford screamed, his eyes snapping open.

Oh. Just a dream.

Just another nightmare.

He tried to settle back down on the couch to go back to sleep, but the world was far more sharp than it should be. Huh. So he wasn’t tired anymore.

Regardless, Ford huddled under his blanket and closed his eyes, because what else was there to do? His hand found his gun, though, and he subconsciously gripped it in comfort. It was a portal habit, he supposed. Thirty years or so in fear of your life was bound to leave a few scars, physical and mental, and killing things before they tried to eat you could prevent a few of them.

Of course, nothing was going to kill him in his home, but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

The sound of owls and monsters outside the Shack was distant, but Ford focused on them like they held the answers to the universe. Each growl was achingly familiar and frightening, but the comfort that he took from the noises made by the creatures that were a part of his real, real world could at the very least lull him into a stupor.

There were footsteps from outside of his bedroom, before someone knocked on the door three times. Ford froze, waiting for the terror to take hold of him.

“Ford, you in there?” his brother’s voice called.

He tried to respond, but his throat made no sound but a quiet croak. The door creaked open and Stanley padded into the room.

“C’mon, Ford,” Stanley said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “It’s okay.”

Ford collapsed into his brother’s strong, wrinkled arms and sobbed. “I’m sorry, Stanley. It’s been so long, and I don’t know how to go back to living… I’m scared, Stanley. Please, help me.”

“Shush, Ford, calm down,” murmured Stanley. “It’s gonna be okay… Wait, you’re not scared of me, are you?”

There was a heavy chuckle from Stan’s chest that shook Stanford’s upper body.

“No,” Ford smiled softly. “No, I’m not.”

“ _Bèc͡au̧se you̶ s̶h̀o̷u̡ld ̡be_.͞”

 

-

  

Ford wakes from the dream again, and picks up the phone from the living room, where he fell asleep. He dials the number that he barely uses, but nevertheless has memorised for good.

“Dipper? It’s me, Ford. I need you and Mabel. Please. Please, I’m… _Please_.”

 

-

 

Within two days, there is no more unexpected flinging of furniture, no more messages scrawled in blood, and no more Stan.

Ford cries himself to sleep.


	2. dreaming heart won't fortify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains some descriptions of violence, but i can't accurately judge how bad it is. i don't find it too bad but it might be unsettling or disturbing for some readers, so please read with caution.

Dipper’s sleeping habits get worse every night that he doesn’t share a room with his sister. Nobody can prevent him from staying up all night, every night, reading and writing and generally avoiding any form of unconsciousness. In all honesty, he only tends to sleep when he collapses from exhaustion, which is probably not a healthy way to go about his life, but he ends up in such a deep sleep that there is no way his mind could be altered or invaded.

Mabel had found some sleeping pills for him, but he had ignored them for a few years, so they probably went out of date a while ago.

So he curls up on his bed, clutching Great-Uncle Ford’s third journal close to his chest like a security blanket, and tries not to think about Bill, or his classes, or the Incident last year.

It doesn’t work, and he falls asleep.

-

Dipper has grown very aware as to when he is or is not dreaming. It is a skill taught to him by Mabel, who spent a week evaluating her natural intuition for distinguishing between dreams and reality before giving him a tiny notebook filled with instructions written carefully in glittery gel pen.

The colours of his dreams tend to be more muted than reality, while Mabel noted that hers are usually pastels and soft edges. Either way, he still knows that this version of the Mystery Shack isn’t real. There is no bright glitter wedged between the floorboards, and the blood from where his Bill-possessed body was thrown down the stairs hasn’t been cleaned up. The stain has dried into a crusty brown, like the batter around Greasy’s chicken nuggets.

Dipper sighs through his nose and focuses slightly, making the blood disappear and creating a baseball bat in his hands. He’d had this dream before, and he knew what was coming. He’d tried waking up or not fighting before, but the first was impossible and the second was something he would rather not relive.

Soon, the spiders start leaking from the walls. Entrails drip from their mandibles, staining the floor with a grotesque rainbow of alien bodily fluids. Dipper starts crushing them under his feet and with the bat, careful to not let them move too far from their origin, and if they start to move again, he grinds his heel over their lower body until the purple blood spurts out. They try to scuttle away from him, but he has done this so many times that destroying them is practically muscle memory.

The next things are more psychologically damaging, and Dipper can never see what they really are. When he stayed outside the last time, he blacked out and spent the rest of the dream with the feeling of being slowly dismembered. So instead, he hides in a small kitchen cupboard that he probably wouldn’t fit in realistically, but this is his dream, and he might not be able to stop the story but he can damn well twist the surroundings to his favour.

He hides until the floorboards stop creaking and the humming noise that fills his skull with confusion silences and the cupboard starts shaking, not due to external forces but something in there with him that wants to get _out_.

Dipper launches himself out and shoves the door shut with his feet, clutching the bat in both hands. He scrambles to get into a better position for hitting things of any size before the new monster bursts out.

The best description Dipper has found for the creature is some kind of scaly blue puma. When he asked Ford about it over the phone once, the man had hung up. Or maybe Grunkle Stan had cut the line. It was hard to know, since every time Dipper mentioned it, he got nothing but the dial tone.

The creature is always difficult to destroy. It has a single serious weak spot on the roof of its mouth that Dipper usually creates a huge sword to hit. However, this time the puma bites the baseball bat, creating splinters that get lodged in its mouth and throat. For good measure, Dipper opens its mouth and shoves the rest of the bat through its skull before creating another bat.

There are fewer creatures at this point of the dream, and Dipper trudges to the attic like usual to recuperate. His and Mabel’s room remains untouched by the violence that is otherwise rampant throughout the house, like the eye of a storm. Sometimes he reads a book, but his imperfect memory means that the words are all wrong and the story jumps ahead of itself like a skipping CD player. So mostly he watches time stand still outside of the window until he gets the feeling that means that he needs to move on, like a fish hook under his navel.

And Dipper walks, and Dipper sees. Every crevice of the Shack and any opening to the outside has been replaced by a window to a memory. The dream leads him through moments of his Grunkle’s life that he had only caught glimpses of in Stan’s mindscape and some that he had only heard about.

-

_“Stanley…”_

_“_ Fuck _.”_

_“Stanley, what are you doing?”_

_“What does it look like, Ford?”_

_“Why would you do something like… Why?”_

_Bitter laughter, incomplete, dark, humourless._

_“What have I got left, Ford?”_

_Dipper peered around the door, eyes wide, not expecting the floorboard to creak, bringing attention to him._

_“Dipper, wh-what are you doing here?”_

_“Grunkle Stan…”_

_Mabel was downstairs, shouting about how the bus didn’t arrive, but Dipper didn’t hear her. His eyes were focused on the empty rope noose hanging from the ceiling._

-

Dipper walks past that memory, averting his eyes, and not thinking about the call he got six months later. Instead, he drags his feet along the silent floorboards, waiting for the part where he sees Grunkle Stan grinning and holding Ford up by the neck, then turns and sees Dipper and he wakes up.

-

Dipper doesn’t scream when he wakes up anymore. Instead, he chews his knuckles and stares at the white ceiling.

He is lost without Gravity Falls, he realises, and he is lost within it. One day he would have to return, even if he had to drag himself there with bleeding hands.

His phone buzzes on his bedside table like a motorbike suddenly revving up, and he jolts before rubbing his eyes. He checks the caller ID to see what weirdo could be calling at this hour, and if it’s one of those people selling him fake insurance, he’ll probably curse them with an incurable cold again.

But his blood runs as cold as the night outside when he reads his surviving great-uncle’s name. He picks up the phone as quickly as his quivering hands can manage.

“Yeah, it’s me. Wait, what? Calm down, please, you’re… Crap… We’ll be over as soon as we can, Great-Uncle Ford, I promise. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Dipper slides out from under the duvet, the cold making his leg hairs stand on end. He tiptoes over to the door, opening it slowly, and makes his way over to Mabel’s sparkly bedroom.

“Mabel,” he whispers, entering slowly. “Mabel, wake up.”

She groans weakly, her brown eyes slowly flickering open. “Whassup, brobro? Nightmare?”

Dipper shakes his head as she begins to lift up the duvet, despite the fact that it is warm and fluffy and damn, he really wants to go to sleep and feel safe. But he can’t. Ford needs him, needs them _both_.

“No,” he says. “We’re going back to Gravity Falls.”


	3. where are you now

With barely a sound, Mabel had packed her bag with a few spare clothes and her knitting kit before dressing and forcing Dipper to change out of his pyjamas into something more weather appropriate. As her brother starts rifling through the pages of his journal, Mabel looks up bus timetables to Oregon on her phone. To be honest, she wouldn’t have been expecting one this late at night, but if they take the car and don’t worry about the law, they should be able to get a bus from Oakland to Gravity Falls.

She pushes the button on her phone to put it to sleep before poking her dozing brother awake. “Dip, have you seen the car keys?”

“In Mom’s handbag, why?” Dipper mumbles.

“ _Steal them_ ,” she grins, squishing his cheeks. “Smoosh.”

“Fine, Mabel,” he sighs before leaving the room. “But you’re driving.”

“I made Mabel Juice yesterday. It has ancient runes for power carved into the jelly beans now,” smiles Mabel. “I’ll be fine. You can navigate. And nap. Napigate. Napnav. Mapnap.”

“Shut up, Mabel,” he hisses, poking his head back through the door. “Leave a note for them, too.”

Mabel waves a gel pen and a giant explosion sticky note wad. “On it, dorkus.”

If she was Dipper, she would wonder what to write. How specific words could be used to generate understanding within her parents’ hearts, so that they could maybe just get away with being grounded for a week. She would go through drafts upon drafts of ideas until she could construct a note with a perfect balance between contrition and assertiveness, because while they shouldn’t be running away temporarily, they kind of needed to help out their grunkles.

Because Mabel is Mabel, and not Dipper, she can write the note rather easily and quickly.

 

_Dear Mom and Dad._

_Me and Dipper need to go to Gravity Falls in order to stop Grunkle Stan’s poltergeist ghost from hurting Grunkle Ford because they are both sad and stubborn people. We’ll be back soonish. The car key will be in the front left tyre and the car will be near the bus station._

_Love, Mabel._

 

It isn’t good. It is _perfect_.

 

-

 

It turns out that Dipper doesn’t sleep well in cars, and as the vehicle keeps on moving, he groans in his dreams. Sometimes he cries out in pain, and Mabel has to use all of her willpower to keep on driving without looking at his face, because it’s probably dripping with sweat and with dark brows furrowed. He whimpers quietly, barely audible over the sound of Mabel screeching around a corner. She fights the urge to grasp his hand, instead clutching the gearstick with numb fingers and trying to stop herself from shaking.

She turns the radio on, even though the only vaguely upbeat music playing at this precious time where night is almost early morning is the alternative station. She lets the sound of Red Night and Your Biological Friendship and Fixing Felicia pump her with energy as she swerves through the streets before parking outside the bus station.

“Dipper,” she says, poking her brother. “Dipper, dorkus, wake up!"

The boy jolts awake, his throat making a tiny noise like a little scared guinea pig. “Mabel, what the heck?”

“We’re outside the bus station,” she replies. “And it would look pretty weird if I carried you in. So come on! Also, you’re carrying the bags.”

Dipper – despite being about as awake as a panda, as well as slightly resembling one with the dark circles under his eyes – scowls. “Why do I always carry the bags?”

“How else are you gonna de-noodle those arms, dork?” grins Mabel.

She hops out of the car, pushing the two backpacks into Dipper’s arms, and locks the doors. The key is placed in between the spokes of the tyres, as promised, before she chivvies her brother to the ticket office.

“Two child tickets to Gravity Falls,” she says, smiling at the bored young adult with red rimmed eyes behind the counter.

He counts out the money carelessly, and just dumps the pennies that Mabel has on hand into the cash register before printing two tickets.

“It leaves in a minute,” he drones. “Have a fun trip.”

“We will!” Mabel beams back. “We’re going to look after our elderly science relative and possibly the dead one too.”

The ticket officer doesn’t reply, instead pulling out a copy of some pretentious novel that Dipper probably loves and looking as though he can read in his state of sleep deprivation.

Mabel slides her brother onto a window seat, where he immediately falls asleep again, and pulls out her knitting needles. It’s going to be a long trip, and she deserves a new glittery sweater. Especially in lime green.

The clicking fills the silence of the bus, where the only other people are a small group of three that seem slightly drunk. Mabel hopes that they know where they’re going. Gravity Falls is dangerous, but there are other stops, too, so maybe the drunk people will be okay.

Click. Click. Click.

It’s so calming; the rumble of the engine and the needles clicking together. Click. Click. Click.

She’s mostly done with the sweater by the time she feels herself drifting off. It took a while, but she manages to finish it before drifting off on her brother’s shoulder. It’s comfortable there. He wears her sweaters sometimes when he needs extra comfort. She knows that. She sees him sad before he wears them, and more Dipperish after. She would feel proud of herself if she wasn’t so sleepy.

 

-

 

“This is definitely a dream,” she says.

There are dolphins with dorsal-fin-mounted laser cannons, giant hamsters floating in huge forcefields of pink energy, a unicorn galloping on a rainbow that she quickly transforms into a pegasus. Of course, the pastel colours are what gives the clue to Mabel that she is definitely asleep.

Also, it’s pretty easy to remember falling asleep when you’ve practised lucid dreaming in order to astral project into your brother’s mind to protect him from triangles.

She selects a cyan manatee for her steed throughout her brother’s mind this time and leaps through the little crack she had created a year or so back, when Dipper had woken up crying one night and immediately asked her to save him. There are probably a lot of dangers to both of them from leaving a little hole between their psyches, but Mabel ignores that in favour of checking her brother’s nightmares for Bills.

The triangle isn’t in Dipper’s dream Mystery Shack, but as soon as Dipper sees her, he grabs her wrist.

“Mabel, what are you _doing_ here?” he hisses, dragging her off of the floating manatee. It dissipates into the air, leaving nothing but a few sparkles that fade into nothingness.

Mabel takes his free hand and finds it holding a baseball bat. “I saw you having a nightmare and I was really worried that it was Bill, but he doesn’t seem to be around here.”

“No, he’s not, I haven’t dreamed about him in ages,” Dipper rattles off, his voice low as he drags Mabel to the kitchen. He clambers into a low cupboard and pulls Mabel in afterwards. “Don’t talk, Mabes, I don’t know if they can hear us and I don’t want to take any chances.”

“C’mon, Dipper, it’s just a nightmare! We can beat it together, just like we beat all your other ones!” says Mabel, trying to smile despite being squashed against her brother’s back and the side of the cupboard.

“It’s not my nightmare, Mabel,” he hisses. “It’s Ford’s.”

Mabel isn’t sure what she’s going to say to that, but Dipper clasps a hand over her mouth before anything but a small noise of confusion can escape.

“Shush! They’re coming!”

 _They_ turn out to be paranoia and fear personified, which for some reason Dipper hasn’t realised. She tries to clamber out of the cupboard, but Dipper clutches her hand, looking at her with huge eyes that she can’t see, but she can feel his desperate gaze and the fear emanating from him. So she entwines his fingers with her own and squeezes, resting her head on his shoulder.

The personifications leave after a while, and Dipper immediately opens the cupboard door.

“C’mon,” he says. “We don’t have much time before the next one. Grab a weapon.”

Mabel scrunches her eyes shut and visualises a big hammer with a yellow and blue spiralled handle, like what carousel horses are impaled upon before having their metal corpses ridden by children of all ages, and a giant pink springy head.

Dipper stares at her decision when she opens her eyes, and shakes his head with a small smile. His face soon falls back into its too common look of steely determination. “Right. Its weak point is its mouth, so try and get it to open up so I can…”

It is Dipper’s turn to close his eyes, and he generates a spear made out of bones. The craftsmanship is pretty terrible, but before Mabel can point that fact out, the cupboard door slams open and a slimy big cat jumps out.

Mabel squeaks before jumping up and hitting its spine with her hammer. There is an audible snap, and the cat starts struggling, yowling in pain. Dipper wrenches its jaw open and stabs it through the roof of its mouth easily.

He stands, leaving the spear in the cat’s skull, and takes Mabel’s hand.

“Do you think you can wake up now?” Dipper asks.

Mabel shakes her head, her hands quivering.

“It’s okay, it’s over now,” he says. “There’s nothing else left except a literal trip down memory lane, and I’d prefer if you didn’t see that.”

Mabel pouts. “I’m staying with you.”

With a grimace, Dipper turns his head and tightens his grip on Mabel. Quietly, he says, “Suit yourself.”

 

-

 

When she wakes up, Mabel is glad that she never threw away the little paper bags from craft stores, because she needs them to throw up in.


	4. won't you, won't you just

The forest has not changed in the year and a half that Dipper and Mabel have been absent from Gravity Falls. In fact, it is almost exactly the same as the first summer they spent there. Some twigs have snapped, fairies have migrated, leaves have rotted away, but the tree that they selected for their secret hideout still has _D &M Pines _scratched into the trunk and there are scraps of ribbons from where Mabel gave the squirrels makeovers.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of snow, and as Mabel shivers she is at least grateful that she forced Dipper into his oversized puffy blue coat and the Big Dipper sweater she made for him. Her brother had pouted, but now he sees her inner genius. Or maybe he’s just cold. Mabel wraps her arms around him and guides him towards the Mystery Shack. They don’t need to remember the paths and landmarks anymore because their feet can always guide them home to their closest family members.

But it’s not home anymore. After so much sadness, Grunkle Stan couldn’t stick around. He left spare taxidermy parts, a book full of old stickers, two bottles of whiskey, enough money for Dipper and Mabel to go to college and live comfortably for three years afterwards, and a smoking gun splattered with blood. He was buried in his normal suit, though in his will he had explicitly left the fez to Soos, the cane to Dipper, and the tie to Mabel.

Those material objects can’t replace him, though.

To be honest, nothing really could.

When Grunkle Ford had first called them a week after they returned to Piedmont, Mabel had squealed and almost dropped the phone in excitement. Her favourite Grunkle wasn’t alive, in the literal sense, but being a ghost was close enough, right?

But soon, the calls became more infrequent, and Ford’s words were more garbles and distant each time. Once, he had called just to scream random gibberish before hanging up.

They hadn’t returned to Gravity Falls since a noise like a firework rang through the house early one morning, causing Dipper and Mabel to jolt awake before investigating around the house, clad in their pyjamas and armed with two books, Mabel’s various weapons, and a flashlight.

They were almost at Grunkle Stan’s bedroom before the door opened and Grunkle Ford stepped out.

“Please don’t go in there,” he had murmured thickly.

And of course, Mabel had disobeyed him because Grunkle Stan was in there, he could be hurt, he might want to see her and Dipper-

And Mabel’s memory fades at that point. She remembers the red, and the numb feeling that settled in her stomach and made her limbs difficult to control, remembers holding a quickly-cooling face and crying and screaming.

But it’s okay now. She can see her home, dilapidated as it is, and Dipper’s gloved hand in her own is big and warm.

“C’mon, dorkus,” she grins, and it might be a little too bright, but Dipper smiles right back at her.

Maybe this will be okay after all.

 

-

 

Mabel raps on the door with her right fist five times. She still hasn’t let go of Dipper, and frankly, she doesn’t want to. His bony hands that are still kind of cold despite the gloves are comforting in their familiarity, giving her the courage to knock again after a minute passes.

The door opens immediately the second time, leaving Mabel staring, dumbfounded, at the sight of her grunkle.

His hair is greasy and in complete disarray, with some bald spots as though someone has been pulling at it until it fell out. Ford’s clothes are stained and at least two sizes too big, even though the last time Mabel saw him, the turtleneck had fitted him perfectly. With the next breath Mabel took, she realised that Ford stank of sweat and vomit, and tried to breathe through her mouth. Dipper’s grip tightens around her hand, and she squeezes back.

“ _No_ ,” he croaks, and Mabel shivers at the empty, haunted sound his voice carries. “Not this. Get away, you two. Get away before he sees you.”

“He?” Dipper asks. “What do you mean, Great-Uncle Ford?”

Ford shakes his head and tries to physically push the twins from the door of the Shack with arms so weak that he couldn’t have plucked a daisy from the ground. “Get away from here,” he says. “Not… It’s not _safe_ , it’s _not_ safe, Dipper, Mabel, you need… _Away_!”

“Grunkle Ford, you’re scaring me!” Mabel cries.

Dipper pulls her away, trying to force his body between the two, but Mabel doesn’t move.

“You called Dipper because you were scared. Gru… Great-Uncle Ford, what are you so afraid of?” There is a pause, filled with nothing but the sound of Ford’s deep breaths and the chirp of woodland animals in the distance. Mabel’s voice becomes even more unsteady as she continues. “Is it… Is it Grunkle Stan?”

Ford flinches away at the name, and he begins to shake his head. “ _Not him, not him, not him_.”

“What is it, Ford?” asks Dipper, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. Mabel hadn’t realised, but she now sees how hunched over and small Ford has become. Dipper is now a full head taller than the man who was once his idol.

Ford flinches at the gentle contact before slowly relaxing, if it could be called that. He is no longer as defensive as he was at the first mention of his brother, but his muscles are tense and Mabel wonders how long it has been since he had been relaxed.

“What is it?” Dipper repeats. “Why are you so scared?”

Ford closes off suddenly, his eyes closing as he turns his back on the twins. He begins to walk back down the halls, ignoring the debris that litters the floor and the cracks in the walls.

“Ford?” calls Mabel in a quivering voice. “Ford, where are you going?”

Her question remained unanswered by the sound of creaking floorboards and wind whistling through the walls.

She steps inside, dragging Dipper with her. He closes the door absently, as if they were children again and had just returned from a monster hunt. For a moment, Mabel can remember being twelve and looking for Grunkle Stan because today’s journey into the forest had been a little scary and she had wanted a hug. But she blinks, and the walls have changed from the warm hues of her childhood to greyish tones, with words scrawled over the wood in what looks like crusted blood. She turns her head from the walls then, her heart twisting in her chest.

“Mabel, we’ve got to leave,” Dipper hisses. “It’s not safe here anymore.”

Mabel shakes her head and doesn’t let go of Dipper. “Grunkle Ford’s scared, Dips,” she says, her voice low. “He’s scared of Grunkle Stan, but Stan would never want to hurt Grunkle Ford.”

Despite the firmness and certainty in her voice, Dipper still doesn’t seem convinced. “Mabel, there was an accident a while back,” he says as they walk. “There were a lot of mind control devices, we were trying to protect us all from Bill, but long story short, we messed up and Ford and I share a dreamscape now. We used to be able to divide it, but recently, he’s been having these dreams. You saw it, Mabel. You saw how messed up Stan is now. And Mabel, I’m… I’m _terrified_ of him. Please don’t make me do this.”

Mabel stops in her tracks, stepping in front of her brother, because in the kitchen is a sight that she has desperately denied ever since she saw the dream.

Because Grunkle Stan is standing over Ford, who is crumpled on the floor in the wreck that was once the kitchen table. His grin is broad and manic, his pupils slit, his skull bleeding from the temple. His body is no better, with a tattered suit and bleeding gashes all over his translucent skin, as well as a blue glow from his back that Mabel knows is where his burn mark lies. For a moment, Mabel remembers hanging over a stage by a rope held by someone who was not her brother, who was looking at her with the same expression as Stan is wearing. It’s like a horrific mask, fused to the face of her great-uncle who used to be so lively, so happy, so much like Mabel. But Stanley hasn’t been himself for a very long time, and she is suddenly very, very scared.

Mabel can feel when Dipper sees Stan, as his body tenses and he flings himself into her arms. She holds him tightly, not looking away from Stan, who is laughing in a high, nasally voice and speaking in a language Mabel cannot understand. The words merge together, like a crowd in a cave screaming and making echos, and Mabel can see Ford curl up even more. She doesn’t blame him; she feels the same urge. But Dipper is sobbing into her shoulder, and she has to be strong for him. She is the older twin. She needs to do something; something to defend her family.

“Grunkle Stan?” she tries to say, and it comes out as a near-silent croak. Stan continues his whisper-screaming in that strange language. Her cheeks hollow as she generates saliva in her mouth to swallow down the lump in her throat and she tries again, with more success. “Grunkle Stan, what are you doing?”

Silence falls, and Grunkle Stan looks up from where he was focused on Ford. His eyes widen, focusing on Mabel before he gradually stares down at his hands; at how clawed and bloody they have become. Slowly, the blood fades, his bleeding wounds repairing themselves to angry red scars, and his eyes becoming brown and human again. He extends a hand out to the twins, trying to touch them, and Dipper flinches away into Mabel’s chest, where she clutches his head and strokes his hair, trying to comfort him in silence. As he makes eye contact with his solemn niece, Stanley’s face twists in agony and he lets himself fade away.


	5. won't you just die

Recently, Stanley has done nothing but a low level of disturbance to Ford. There is a kind of joy to be found in the needless anxiety that Ford finds himself in when he isn’t being terrorised outright. It also gives Stanley time to plan how to mess with Ford’s head even more than he already has.

Deep down, a part of Stanley – the one that wears a fez and some underwear and nothing else – is screaming and telling him to stop. Tells him that this won’t solve anything. That the kids would be ashamed.

Stanley does not know or care who the kids are.

(warm and soft sweaters, a faded blue hat, late nights watching bad television shows, a growing feeling of love)

But Stanford, he knows. Stanford has cared for him until they were teenagers, when he took Stanley’s hopes and dreams and aspirations and crushed them with college and science projects and _turning his back from the window_.

Stanley rolls his eyes and drifts down from his old bedroom to the kitchen before sending a feeling of neediness to Ford. His twin flinches and follows the feeling, like a fish being reeled in.

It was really quite easy. Give Ford the idea that he was somehow useful and he immediately sought out attention from whoever needed him. It was like training a dog, but this dog was a traitor bastard.

“S̷̢͢o̧͠,̴͢ ̢͟yoų̢ ̨ca̶̢͜m̷e̵͘͞,” he says as Ford drags his feet through the doorway. There was really no need to. Ford is barely even in his own mind anymore, and Stanley scowls at the thought of his brother escaping the torture he deserves. With a little concentration, Stanley morphs his hands from having merely pointed fingernails to the laws of that creature Ford was so afraid of, the blue puma with fish skin. Frankly, it was hilarious; both in appearance and in the way that, when looking at Ford’s memories, it had stalked him for over a year throughout dimensions, occasionally launching at him when he was least aware and forcing him to fight for his life.

Ford walks over the remains of what was probably the kitchen table, once. His voice is weak and hoarse, as though he has been screaming. Stanley doesn’t care. “Yes, Stan. I did.”

“R̡eme͏ḿber̸ tha̛t ̧time y͏o͢u ͠sta͜yed u͝p̨ a͢l͝l ̛ni̸gh͡t ͘for ̛tw͘o͠ week̕s͝?͝” Stanley says, his voice losing its more horrifying qualities. He doesn’t even remember having that crack in his voice before. “Y̵ou͝ b͏aŗe͡ly s̨l̢ept ̕uņl͘e͏ss I͏ m̢a̛de ̧y̨ou̕ wa͠r͢m m̨ilķ ̵an͡d ͝fo͏r͟cib̧l̷y pút ͜yo̴u ̀t̨o ̴bed. ̛T͜ha̡t ͜w̷as ͜fu̸n͜,̛ S̕tan͘f̢o͏r̶d͢.̀ T̨hat ҉was ́h̡ow̢ ̵b͟ŕo̧thers͠ shơul͞d be͡hav̕è.̶ B̸̛ų̶t̵͢ ̧̢̡t̴h͟͝en͢ ҉y̷̡o͘͝u ̨͜c͠hą̵n̷͘g̡ęd̛́,҉̨ St̴̨͜a͟n̵f̀͟o̕r̴͡d.͡͡ ̷̨͘Yo͝u ̡͏s̛aw̧ ̧a ̡m̛̛i̡̧̕sţak̀͞ę̛ I̛͠͏ ͞͡h̶̡͡á̀͝d͝ ́͝mad̸̀e҉̵̡ ̵҉on̷̡͟c̡͠͠e̶,͝ ̡̡̨à̧nd͟҉ ̵͡yo̷u̵̸ d͝e҉s̕t̕͏r̡ó͜ye̴d ͞͡m̵̢y̕͢҉ ͠l̀͟i͏f̷̴è͏ ̸̛͏o͞v̶̀͡é̴͢r͞ ͢͡į̶͜t̴̴̢.”

“I didn’t mean to,” croaked Ford. “I didn’t think… I was an idiot, Stanley!”

“Yo̵u’̢v̛è ̷al̢wa͡ys bèe̸n̨ ̛an͟ ͏i͘dio͡t҉, ̧it͞’͞s ̕o͏ņĺy͞ n̵o͡w t̡h̷a̶t̢ ̢yo̸u’r̀e r͘ȩa̛l̡i͟sin̡g i̕t. Do ͟you ͜kn͏ow wh҉at I̶ d͘id͡,͞ F͏o͢rd?̸ W͠hen ͘yo̵u͜ ̡w̡e̴r͏e̛ so̕b̷bįn͜g͜ ͡ove͠r̢ ̡ho̷w y̴o̷úr ͏ba̕d̵ ļi̧t̕tle b͡r̷ot̷h́er͞ bro̴ke̶ y͞o͞ur toy͞,͞ ̀I ̀w͡a͠s̴ liv̢ín͜g fi̧ve ̷m͞inute̴s͏ aw̛ąy̕ f̶ro͝m ̴yo̵ú i̷n ̢m͢y c̨ar, a͢n͏d I̛ ̡coul͘d͏n’̶t͡ ̧lǫok͝ for y͏ou. I’d̸ just͢ g͘et͠ fuck̕i̛ng ͜hi̢t̛ a̴ga̛i͟n.͞ Did́ ̨yóu͟ ̀no͜w tha̷t͞ P͜o̶p̨s hit m̷e a͠ròu͞nd, ͡Stanf̴or̀d? ͠N҉o.̀ Y͏oú ̷w̢ȩre tòǫ f͜u҉ckin͞g o͞bsessed ẁįth ́yo͟u̴r͢self̢ t͟o̷ ̕fig̵u̢re ͘ou̢t ̸ba̛sic ̸s͠hit͠ ͏l҉ik҉e t̕hat. ̸A͡nd͟ ̀w̴h͠en ̕y͟òu w̴ere̢ ̡li̸vi͠n҉ǵ i͘t ͜u̸p ͠in a̴c͢t̛uàĺ ͠damn ͝educa̡tįo͞n, ̶I̸ wa̷s sèl̵l͡i̛n͝g w̧ha̵ţęve̢r ͠c̀rap ̸I͢ ͞c͘oul͢d t̛h͟r͡o͟w to̵geth̵er̛ ón͢ T̕V ̷be҉c͝au̡se҉ l͜y̧͘͞i̵̸ǹg ̴w̕͟͝a͏s͡ t̷h̕e̷͟͠ ̶o͢͡nl̡ý͝ ̀͘͠t̴̨͘hí̴n҉̨̧g̛̕ ̢I͟ c̸̷où̵͡l̸͜d͜ ͠d͘͟o̢. ̴Ĺ ͝f̛d͏q w͟h̷͏o҉̸͝o ̧w̧͘k̢͘͞h̢͠ ̧w͏͠u͞͞͠x̷͞w͘k̵͢҉ ̛q͢͏r̢z,̧ ̵͡͡wkŗ͞x͝j̧́k̨̕͜.̛ ̧͘B͢͞r̵x̶̕ ̧̢͟gh҉̷͠v̵̀ẃ͜u̵rb҉h̷͡ģ̴ ̢̕͡p̷̀b òl̢ih̀ ̴͡V͝w͢d҉q̀̀͟į̶͠ŕug. ̴̡L͏͘ ͟j̕d͏̛y̴̕͡h xs̷͝ ҉̶h͝͠y̸͠h̶ų͢bw̴̕̕k͝l͠q̴́͞j̧ ҉w͝r ̵̨p̡̨d͟n̕̕h͝ ̨͟b̵r̴x̧͘ ́͞͝k͝͞ds͢sb̨̛͞, ̨d̶q͟g̴ ̕͞͞z̕͝k͝͠͡h̷̡q̨ ̴͝L͏͏ pdg̛h͟ r̶͠q̸́͞h̶̢͝ p̛l̵̨͡v́͞w̢҉d͏n͘͝h҉, ̕͡b̴̀ŕ̛͡x̸̧ ͡f̵͜x̀w͠ p҉͢h̶̀ ̢͏r͠i҉i͟͡ ́͘i̵̵͢ru͝hỳ̨hu.̢͏̛”

Ford whimpers from the floor, curled up in the foetal position. The fear and self-loathing leaves a delicious taste in Stanley’s mouth, like well-matured whiskey, and he can’t get enough.

“D̷̵͍̦ͯq̨̳͔̗̲̺̟͇ͨͨ͛͛̈̋̊̚g͔̳ͪ̒͋͞ ̷̸̫̯͖̗̇͛͌ͩ̊ͦ̆ȯ̻̼͍̇ͣ̍̔̉̂̿͡r̴̡̦̰̿̿ͩ͋́r̂̂͋ͦ͏̞̦̣̻n̡͕̪̮̺͊͐ͤ̌͠ ̧̼̥̠̝̠̓ͭ̾ͯ̈́̉ͤͨ̌ͅd͎̟͓̜͉͚͈͒ͩ͘͠ͅwͫ͗ͮ͆͛̏ͥ̈̚͘͏͖̤ ͔̠̲̥̬̍ͬ̇̇̔̈́ͧ͘z̢̋҉͕̪̤̠̹̖ͅk̤̖̙͈̭͓̈́̒͛ͦ̔ͣ̌̐̇̕͡d͒̒ͫ͑͛ͨͨ͏̡̦͇̟͍͝w̡̧̢̟̣̭̪ͣ̉ ̷̡̥̹̟͒̾ͨ̎b̵͇̟̼ͧ͌͆r̷̦͇͈͚̜͖̘͖̞ͫ͊͌̉̾̏́͋̽͢x̺͙̀ͩ́̕ ͇̭̣͔̲̼ͫ̐̅͞g̦̞̭̳͚̝̓͋ͬl̪̲̼ͣ̿̒̾̉̊̈́̌͢g͕̙̜̙̝̖̿̿ ̢̡͎̱̮͊̐͂̿̆͗̒̓͛͡w̃͛̈҉̷̳̞͈̝̙͖̤̺́ͅṟ̶͎͉̉̀ ̭̦̣̳̠̞̯͋ͥ̂ͣ̇͢͝p̷͂͂͋ͫ͂̽ͭ͌̓͏̜̳h͙̳̖̫̰͊̂ͤͫ̓͊̚,̷͔̬̫̬̜̆̆͛͛͛̍” he hisses. “O̡͚̯̲̯̳̖̤͓ͮ̈͂̓̃͒̔r̴̙̲̼̘̲̣̘̩͖͐̑̂̊̿̏̈̓r̦̜̗͖ͩ́̒͞ͅṇ̰̞̥̳̏͊͛̉͠ͅ ̻͎̄́͝d͒҉̨͖̱͔̯͇̝ͅw̧̳͇ͥ̅̌͂ͭ ͌̒͛ͪ͐̀͏͈̫̼͎̖͔̦̻͙p̧̹̺͉̖̦̘̿͑ͤͥ̕͠h̀̽̃͏̘̪͔͠,̧̟̩͓͖̜͇̯̓͌̈́̍̇̾̿̚͞͠ͅ ̥̖ͤ̒ͧ̔͌ͮ͘V̵̨͍̹̰͉̲͕ͧ͛̌̌w̤̜̽͑̉̔ͭ̕ͅͅd̵͇̪͍̮̀̐ͧ̓̏͒́͞q̩̻̣̬̜͈̲ͪͦͮiͨ̍̊҉̥̥̜͈r̂́ͮ̄͗ͬ̂͋̍͏̺̠̙̺̭͡u͙͙̻̫̩͂͜g̮͙͙͕̝̤̥͑̏̔̓ͫ ̦̭͚̜̻̈͊̎͗͋̚̕S̗̬̮̫͖ͫͮ̉l̾̽́͏̬͖ͅq̳͓̟̺͎̐́h̛̠͎͙̙̼͐̄̋ͫ̓̇̂̚͟͞v̤͎̹̼͚̾ͮ͟͝.”

“Grunkle Stan, what are you doing?”

That soft voice.

Memories of summers that feel so far away; faded, dreamlike, into his subconscious. Water balloons and silly costumes and the feeling of sunrise on his skin; in his heart. The itchiness of stickers plastered to his face that he puts up with before peeling them off at night and placing them in a little notebook. The stench of sweaty preteen boy and pocketing extra deodorant when he went shopping.

And he sees those children, but they are no longer twelve and eager. The boy, Dipper, little Dipper who stayed up so late at night reading and somehow surviving every day on less sleep than Stan himself, and he was Stan, Grunkle Stan, _not only a great-uncle but the greatest_ , and Mabel’s arms wrapped around her brother, still clad in thick and lurid wool, obviously muscular, and with a look of fear in her brown eyes that should never be there.

And Dipper stares at him with eyes that look like they’ve seen a ghost (no shit, Stanley, stop kidding) and his skin is tinged green and Stan reaches out a hand, because Dipper shouldn’t feel like that, his kid should be safe and happy, and Dipper flinches away.

Because it’s been Stan; Stan is the one who hurt him, Stan is the one Dipper fears, and in a moment, he remembers that Ford had some sort of subconscious link with someone. It was Dipper. Stanley knows, and he knew then as well, but in those horrific weeks, months, years that Stanley no longer recognises, Dipper was nothing but another constellation of dead stars in the sky to him.

Stan extends a hand, now broad with stubby, short fingers, and Dipper flinches away.

 

-

 

The attic was once safe.

It was once filled with nothing but useless junk that Ford didn’t care about. But now, Stan sees the stickers and stuffed toys, forgotten by Mabel at the end of the summer, and stubs of old pens and pencils with deep chew marks left by Dipper. He sees these things, these marks left by the kids that had meant the world to him, and shakes.

If he still had a need to breathe, Stanley wouldn’t be able to. As it is, his mind is again screaming to be silenced; to enter the cold blankness of the nothing after death, despite the fact that he has tried it so often and it has never helped, even when he had succeeded in blowing his brains out and painted his bedroom wall red with blood.

He lost himself then. As soon as the kids weren’t around him every day, Stan began to forget them. He forgot what it was like to be hugged and loved genuinely, with no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. His regression was marked by the brand on his back and the blood on his hands that no longer felt like his own.

The day goes past outside. At least, it might have. Stan had broken all of the clocks long ago, and the curtains are drawn and covered in cobwebs. But eventually, Mabel pads up to the attic with her bag before dumping it on Dipper’s old bed, making a huge mushroom cloud of dust. She has changed from her sweater to what seems to be a hand-knitted nightdress in a neon green, with little checkers of pastel pink at the hem where it drags on the dirty floor.

There is a silence for a while as Mabel climbs into bed and snuggles up in unwashed blankets, closing her eyes and smiling.

“Sometimes, I lie to myself,” she says, cracking a lid open and seeking out Stan, who is desperately trying to fade away.

He gives up and allows himself to grow as opaque as he can again before settling on Dipper’s bed. To be honest, he can’t feel the cloth and if he were to lie down, his body would go straight through Mabel’s bag, but for Mabel, he would pretend to be normal. He would pretend anything for her.

Except to pretend to be okay.

Mabel continues, her smile becoming more strained. “I kept telling myself that you were still alive, and at your funeral, that it was natural causes. That you were old, and that it was your time. But it wasn’t, Grunkle Stan!”

She sits up on her elbows, her unplucked and messy eyebrows furrowed. Stan’s eyes widen at her tears threatening to fall that she blinks back. Her cheeks are red and her lips bitten and Stan can tell, now that he is no longer blinded to anything past his own damn nose, that she is nervous beyond words. This is uncertainty that Stan hasn’t seen in Mabel since she was twelve and a breath away from breaking him completely.

“Grunkle Stan, you were barely sixty. That gave you, like, fifty more years. We could have had so many cool adventures together! But then you were dead and I… I wanted to know why you didn’t just talk to me!”

Stan slides off the bed and knelt beside Mabel, desperate to feel the wooden boards against his shins, Mabel’s soft hands, and he tries to reach out. She sees his hand and entwines their fingers together, like two jigsaw pieces that didn’t look like they should fit, but joined so fluidly and made such a pretty picture that nobody would notice.

He tries to swallow, forgetting that his humanity left him long ago, and says, “S͘ẃeetìe, ̶I̛-I’m messed up. And the thing with being messed up is that you think that you’re alone, even when you’re not.”

“Did you have depression?” asks Mabel bluntly. Her expression is grim and tells Stan everything he needs to know about the year he missed.

Stan laughs emptily. Mabel needs to know. She’s all he has left, now. “I… Depression? Eh heh… I guess I still do, Mabel. And when it all came crashing down, I just remembered, then, all the times Ford had failed me; all of the times I had failed myself; all of the times I… I didn’t want that to happen to you and Dipper. And sometimes, I saw all of the ways I could screw up, that I already _had_ screwed up, and the best idea I had to stop it was to remove myself from the equation. And then it becomes some sort of idealistic victory, to die, and I spent six months trying to off myself in the hopes that it would make someone happy and give me the blankness I wanted. But sometimes things don’t always work out the way you plan, sweetie, and you end up as a monstrous ghost made of anger and a misdirected need for vȩnǵe̶anc̀e, and̸ ̢y̴̵̢o̧u ̴̸r͏̶u̧͏i̷n͟ ̀y͘̕͏ou͝r̢ ̸̀f̶̡̨a̸̢m̀ì͜l̸̴͝y̸’̶́s̷ ̵͝l͠i͜f͞e͠.”

He tries to smile for Mabel, but it comes out as more of a bitter grimace. His bottom lip quivers and he clamps his teeth down on it, but it doesn’t help. Instead, his hands start to shake and his eyes begin to blur and he begins to sob drily. Warmth wraps around him, and he’s forgotten what it felt like, to be held and loved. The soft wool and smooth hair, the strong arms that wrap tightly around his body, all combining to bring him to the home he barely remembers.

He clutches Mabel like she is the only piece of driftwood for miles in the ocean, where everything around is turbulent and storming. As his sobs quiet and her breaths even out in sleep, Stan tucks Mabel into her bed and fades out of corporeality.

He is the storm, and she had been the only part that remained untouched.

 

-

 

From that point onwards, Dipper and Mabel stay in Gravity Falls.

First, Mabel calls her parents with the excuse that it’s snowing too badly for them to return home, even though she had taken Grunkle Ford and Dipper to Greasy’s Diner for lunch an hour before. They accept the excuse after ranting at her for an hour about the irresponsibility of leaving when she and Dipper still had school to attend. After a month, they call again, and Mabel tells them as much as she can. She tells them that there have been problems, and Grunkle Ford needs them to support him. She makes the excuse that he is old and needs help getting around; barely being able to keep her parents calm about her lack of education as she tries to promise to enrol at Gravity Falls High School.

“Grunkle Ford has twelve PhD’s,” Mabel snaps before hanging up. She takes a glance at the man who was once a genius. He sits at the newly bought kitchen table, wrapped in his coat like a child in a blanket. At least Mabel had managed to coax him into a new sweater and some clean clothes, even if he hadn’t taken a shower in months. He glances up with dull, fearful eyes when he hears his name, and Mabel tries to smile to comfort him.

Ford’s eyes are empty now. Sometimes, when Mabel and Dipper are fooling around, watching TV and generally being siblings, a spark of recognition and joy will flicker across his face. But Mabel can understand where his mind usually lies. It’s a dark place, where everything is in greyscale and all of the people have blank faces. It’s not real though, and Mabel whispers that whenever Ford or Dipper need her to hold their hands and keep them grounded in reality.

She goes through life like this, as spring unfurls and brings baby lambs and daffodils along with it. She closes the books on exorcisms that appear surreptitiously on tables before Dipper and Ford see them. She writes homework assignments with Dipper, sometimes going to Grunkle Ford for help. She never mentions the fact that she understands the science equations perfectly.

And every night, Mabel clambers out of the attic and onto the roof, no matter how cold it is, and talks to Grunkle Stan. He listens, drinking in each word as a holy scripture of love, hardly looking away from her. Mabel curls up with him, gushing about a cool rock she found or an anecdote about Dipper talking to a girl. Sometimes, she mentions Ford, and a feeling of shame emanates from Grunkle Stan. Sometimes, they cry.

And sometimes, Mabel lets herself hope. She hopes that Grunkle Ford will be able to recover, that Dipper will get better, and that Stan… That Grunkle Stan will, one day, be happy.

She needs to fix them, but she doesn’t know how.


End file.
